I have a question for the one that drew me so frail and fragile.
It’s just that I don’t know if I’ve the right to ask.
Why for, these weak arms?
Why for, this heart as soft as a date,
In this chest as brittle as chalk?
Why for this voice so shaky, these limbs so shaky,
This mind, this damned and blessed mind, so shaky?
Why for these eyes so deep, deep as the very middle
Of the lake?
Why for this uselessly quickened stride, as if
I always have somewhere to be?
Why for, this trembling little-girl’s mouth
I am not quick to cry any more
But I do wonder
Why for am I so stormy still?